


The Dead

by diana_hawthorne (dhawthorne)



Category: Cracks (2009)
Genre: Gen, based on the book, just the characters are differet, not the film, the plot is still the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 13:12:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhawthorne/pseuds/diana_hawthorne
Summary: Studies, long neglected, occupy our days, Latin translations and Euclid filling the time we used to spend lying on our backs and listening to Rachmaninoff, thinking of our cracks. We think of real boys now, of dancing with them, kissing them.





	The Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first Cracks fanfic I wrote, long before the movie came out. It's been living on FFN, but I wanted to post it here. Please note that this is based on the book, and not the film.

We know nothing of the dead who walk the halls; the girl who the chapel was named after died of pneumonia or meningitis, depending on whom you ask. The spinster teacher was killed by a jealous lover or raped and beaten by a lunatic, left to drown in the pool. There are rumours of girls who have hanged themselves, a soldier killed in the war returning to find his long-lost lover, Sir George's niece who did not want to leave when the house was sold. Their ghosts haunt the corridors. It is not a surprise to us when Fiamma's ghost joins them.

She appears only to us, of course, her pale features so ghost-like in life that, at first, we believe that we had dreamed what happened to her, what we had done to her. But the sweet, soft oval of her face is transparent now, the blonde locks that tumble around her shoulders do not stir even when the wind blows through the branches of the frangipanis. When she swims, she no longer kicks up a rainbow spray, glittering in the early morning sunlight.

We try to avoid her as one by one we leave the swim team, avoid the pool. We no longer run to the river. We no longer lie on the graves, covered with flowers.

We forget.

When the air is hot and still and heavy, we do not tiptoe past Mrs. Looney's door to go swimming. We do not gather flowers and leave pineapple juice in the pasture to ferment.

We do not live.

Studies, long neglected, occupy our days, Latin translations and Euclid filling the time we used to spend lying on our backs and listening to Rachmaninoff, thinking of our cracks. We think of real boys now, of dancing with them, kissing them.

We do not dream.

Our lives are empty. Sheila no longer tells stories of destruction. Ann cannot stop crying. Di stares into the distance while Meg stares at nothing at all, an empty look in her dark eyes. Fuzzie hears voices again.

We all see her ghost, no matter what we do.

Once upon a time, we believed the most important thing in life was desire. Now...

Now there is nothing.


End file.
